AUSTRALASIA.
105
On the bleak desert, or the tombless sea,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee;
Affection knows not, whether o'er thy grave
The ocean murmur, or the willow wave!
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame;
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Peyrouse.
But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan,
Nor check the task thy pious toil began;
O'er the wide waters of the bounding main
The Book of Life must win its way again,
And in the regions by thy fate endear'd,
The Cross be lifted, and the Altar rear'd.
With furrow'd brow and cheek serenely fair,
The calm wind wand'ring o'er his silver hair,
His arm uplifted, and his moisten'd eye
Fix'd in deep rapture on the golden sky,—
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimm'd the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labour, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away, for ever reft, from him,
The liquid accent, and the buoyant limb.
Yet still within him aspirations swell
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell:
The changeless Zeal, which on, from land to land,
Speeds the faint foot, and nerves the wither'd hand,
And the mild Charity, which, day by day,
Weeps every wound and every stain away,
Hears the young bud on every blighted stem,
And longs to comfort, where she must condemn.
With these, through storms, and bitterness, and wrath,
In peace and power he holds his onward path,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee;
Affection knows not, whether o'er thy grave
The ocean murmur, or the willow wave!
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame;
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Peyrouse.
But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan,
Nor check the task thy pious toil began;
O'er the wide waters of the bounding main
The Book of Life must win its way again,
And in the regions by thy fate endear'd,
The Cross be lifted, and the Altar rear'd.
With furrow'd brow and cheek serenely fair,
The calm wind wand'ring o'er his silver hair,
His arm uplifted, and his moisten'd eye
Fix'd in deep rapture on the golden sky,—
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimm'd the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labour, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away, for ever reft, from him,
The liquid accent, and the buoyant limb.
Yet still within him aspirations swell
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell:
The changeless Zeal, which on, from land to land,
Speeds the faint foot, and nerves the wither'd hand,
And the mild Charity, which, day by day,
Weeps every wound and every stain away,
Hears the young bud on every blighted stem,
And longs to comfort, where she must condemn.
With these, through storms, and bitterness, and wrath,
In peace and power he holds his onward path,
